“Oh, I started them,” said Junn.

“What?”

“I became queen when I was sixteen years old, Crier. Mere days after my father was assassinated. The country was in chaos, my father’s advisers thought me a silly little girl, the people thought me weak and naive. It didn’t help that my father had always kept me hidden from the public eye, to keep his secret safe.” She smiled wanly. “Of course, he didn’t know I’d been sneaking out of the palace for years. But I digress.”

“So . . . you started the rumors to make people respect you as a leader?”

“Not respect. Fear. I’ve found it far more useful in the long run.”

“I see,” Crier said quietly. She understood what Junn was saying. But still, sitting in the moonlight beside the Child Queen, she thought: That’s not the kind of leader I’d want to be. Then Junn’s words caught up to her. “Your father kept you hidden to . . . keep his secret safe? What secret?”

Instead of answering, Junn reached into the folds of her robes and drew out a knife.

Crier stiffened, but Junn didn’t make any moves to attack her. She held up the knife, appearing to admire it, moonlight turning the blade to molten silver. Then she lowered it to her other forearm. Before Crier could react, Junn slid the blade across her own skin.

“Your majesty—” Crier gasped, though Junn herself looked calm. She wiped the blade off on her deep blue robes, pocketed it again. Tilted her arm up to the light.

Red blood oozed from the shallow cut in her forearm.

Red blood.

Crier stared, uncomprehending.

“Everyone sees only what they want to see,” said Junn. “Humans, Automae; it doesn’t matter. We’re all the same in that respect.”

“That’s not possible,” Crier said, even as the evidence glittered like rubies on Junn’s skin. “There’s no way you could hide that. From everyone. For all these years. Your whole life.”

“Yet I did.” Junn lifted her arm, licking at the rivulet of red, human blood. “Not from everyone. My personal guards know. Certain trusted advisers and elders of my father’s court. My Storme.”

“But . . . your heartbeat. Your eyes . . .”

Junn smiled. “When I visited your palace, did you listen to my heartbeat? Did you watch my eyes, waiting for them to flash gold?”

No, she hadn’t.

Crier’s hearing was strong enough to pick up any heartbeat in her immediate vicinity—and so she’d learned to tune them out. They were distracting. Unnecessary background information. She didn’t pay attention to the rhythm of the heartbeats around her unless she had a specific reason to. The rabbits in their den. Deer in the woods. Ayla, always.

Had Crier watched Junn’s eyes? Only in the sense that she had, at the time, wanted them on her. She’d wanted Junn to look at her, speak to her. But had she been waiting for Junn’s eyes to flash gold in the candlelight at dinner? No, why would she. Junn was an Automa—there was no reason to believe otherwise, to search for signs of deceit.